


Withering

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Gen, Humpby, Prompt Fic, Sorry Alan - the things I do to you, Tumblr Icon Project, dark themes, genfic, introspective, this is not fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alan is making daisy chains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Withering

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first fic in a series based on my bro [somebodyslight](http://somebodyslight.tumblr.com/)'s tumblr icons. She photoshops the same image of Alan in various outfits and accoutrements for her user icon based on her whims; Alan's ensembles are often also seasonally appropriate. (The first one I saw was holiday sweater!Alan, which immediately made me scream and vow to become her friend.) So because these little images suggest all kinds of narratives and stories to me, I proposed a project where I write a fic based on each icon.
> 
> So this is the first fic for that series, and it's based on her current incarnation which is Alan wearing a daisy chain (courtesy somebodyslight): 

Alan is making daisy chains, sitting cross-legged in the grass as his trousers stain from the freshly cut lawn.

He’s still clumsy at it, having only managed to produce two in the past hour or so, unlike his seasoned instructor who has at least five sitting in a pile next to them.

The sun is bright, the flowers are fragrant in the public garden, and his small companion is telling him a story about visiting a duck pond and launching a toy sailboat across the water.

Alan fumbles a bit as he tries to tie the last knot in the wreath, and he’s rebuked gently.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Alan smiles with half his mouth and tilts his head.

“Show me again?”

“Truly, it’s not difficult.”

He manages to make three chains now, tying the stems into tiny knots and linking daisy after daisy.

They’re rather pretty in a simple way, although he’s taken so long to make his first two, the flowers are wilting where he’s placed them gingerly on the grass.

Alan’s heard many stories today – about duck ponds, bad fortune, kind mothers and unkind fathers, workhouses and poorhouses, how shoes that are too large can be fixed with wadded rags or newspaper.

“And you see then,” Alan is told rather authoritatively, “there’s pretty things to be had everywhere.”

Alan smiles and nods, having finally finished his third daisy chain.

He commits every story to memory, every detail, and keeps his mouth in that painful half-smile when his last reap of the day places a daisy wreath on his head.

“It’s lovely,” he says, touching the flowers sitting against his hair with gentle fingertips, mindful not to displace the garland.

These freak accidents – death from bodily maladies that no one expects – are always ones that Alan prefers to be assigned. Cinematic records are always interesting, of course; but they’re never quite as interesting as hearing the story in words.

Nevertheless, if this particular short human life could be summarized in images, it would be: afternoon sunlight glinting off water, the plucking of petals in forget-me-not games, birds gliding in the sky, billowing surfaces that catch the wind, dragonflies recalled in the stillness, and daisy chains.

Alan has always been a triple A student, and so he studies days like these to prepare for his own.

That, and children never really deserve to die alone – a belief that Alan keeps to himself.

When he checks his scythe back into General, Eric is waiting for him with a grin, eager to leave the workday behind.

“You’ve something in your hair, Humphries,” he says, reaching out to pull away a wilted petal. He twists it in his fingers, the white fast becoming yellow as it dries up and discolors, and he looks up to meet Alan’s eyes with a concern he’ll never admit aloud.

“Too many flowers in the living world,” Alan replies, forcing a smile from half of his mouth. “Cheers.”

Eric’s fist tightens with the dead petal in the middle of it, and Alan tries not to smell the grass stains on his suit.


End file.
